


Lessons in Love

by 2am_limbo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depressed Sherlock, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John-centric, Johnlock Roulette, Kittens, Light Smut, M/M, Missing Scene, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Pining John, Pining John Watson, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Protective Mycroft, Redbeard - Freeform, Sherlock is an Unintentional Tease, Sherlock-centric, Short & Sweet, Some ficlets, Sweet Sherlock, Whipped Cream, Worried John, brief mention of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-04-29 16:53:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 11,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5135332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2am_limbo/pseuds/2am_limbo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock does this thing with spoons that always takes John’s breath away. Rips it from his gut with remarkable force, oftentimes causing John to let out a small strangled sound of lust. Sherlock has to know what he does to him. Has to know that that one little habit of his drives him crazy, arouses him beyond what could possibly be safe. He is Sherlock bloody Holmes after all. He knows. (Taken from Chapter 1: The Spoon Thing)</p><p>---</p><p>In which John and Sherlock explore their newly (not quite) established relationship. A series of (mostly) one shots & ficlets (and possibly some ongoing stories) of missing scenes as things unfold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Spoon Thing -- Part 1

Sherlock does this thing with spoons that always takes John’s breath away. Rips it from his gut with remarkable force, oftentimes causing John to let out a small strangled sound of lust. Sherlock _has_ to know what he does to him. _Has_ to know that that one little habit of his drives him crazy, arouses him beyond what could possibly be safe. He is Sherlock bloody Holmes after all. He knows.

Sherlock has a thing for sweets. He consumes so much sugar that it makes John sick whenever they sit with tea. Therefore, after last week’s embarrassing fiasco, John vowed to never, ever buy whipped cream again.

This thing that Sherlock does with spoons… While Sherlock has a very strange and sporadic eating routine, there are a few things that Sherlock savors when he does decide to partake in some food. Like whipped cream.

Come to think of it, actually, Sherlock does this thing with spoons with any food eaten with a spoon. John sighs in defeat every time he sees Sherlock with anything spoon-worthy.

This thing Sherlock does… He dips his spoon in his yoghurt or ice cream, what-have-you, a heaping spoonful, and slides it into his mouth. He removes the spoon slowly, lips beautifully wrapped around it, taking with it the top layer of his treat, leveling it out and leaving the rest. He slowly swallows, savoring every flavor on his tongue with a calm and blissful look, and sometimes, if John’s lucky, Sherlock will close his eyes when doing this.

And the process is repeated until that spoonful of Heavenly goodness has been consumed. _Only one spoonful._ It’s the deepest circle of hell, John decides.

John had tried everything he could think of to prevent this from happening to him. He had hidden the spoons once, in a very good hiding place, mind you, but to his chagrin, they reappeared the next morning. He should’ve known better. He even secretly refused to wash the spoons whenever they were dirty, knowing full well that Sherlock wouldn’t wash the bloody dishes, but alas, there was always one lone available spoon somewhere in the flat.

John had been dying for hot cocoa for quite some time, and he bought a small tub of whipped cream to plop on top once he got home. However, after a particularly grueling case, Sherlock and John returned to their flat soaked from the rain and exhausted, and after changing into dry clothes, Sherlock threw himself down into a chair at the kitchen table, spoon and container of whipped cream in hand.

He stabbed his spoon into the middle of the whipped treat. John’s shoulders slumped, and Sherlock looked over to him with an arched brow.

“What?” Sherlock asked with a bit of irritation in his voice.

“Hm? Oh. Nothing.” John dropped his head to the table and groaned, feigning exhaustion. Really, though, John just couldn’t bear to watch Sherlock with that damn spoon.

John was hyper-aware of Sherlock in these Times. He was hyper-aware of Sherlock at all times, really, but during these Spoon Times, he was hyper-hyper-aware. He heard Sherlock let out a breath, could feel the tension leaving his body with every spoon-to-mouth movement, and could hear the metal of the spoon clink against his teeth at times. It was driving John mad.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” John shot up from the table and snatched the spoon from Sherlock’s hand, tossing it in the sink.

“Hey!” Sherlock cried and frowned, looking like a wet puppy, and all in one swift movement, John spun around, grabbing Sherlock’s face, tilting his head upwards to meet his own, and planted a rather forceful kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

John dropped his arms and turned to make his way upstairs to his room, and his bedroom door slammed shut shortly after. Sherlock sat there, beyond confused, unsure of what the hell just happened. He looked down to his whipped cream with a bewildered look and mouth agape, and couldn’t resist scooping up a little whipped cream on his finger.  
 


	2. The Spoon Thing -- Part 2: The Day After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a wee little something for now. Enjoy.

John awoke the next morning due to the silence. The flat has never, ever been this quiet, not while Sherlock Holmes has resided at 221 Baker Street. John huffed and squinted to examine the clock, his vision blurry, and groaned as he read the red numbers: 6:42 a.m.

John stumbled out of bed, dragging his comforter with him, and wrapping it around himself as he made his way downstairs. Sherlock was sitting in his chair in the sitting room calmly, innocently, _patiently_ , and that alone should have sent red flags up in John Watson’s brain.

“Why in the hell am I up at too-fucking-early-o’clock…” John was not happy about this. Not happy at all.

Silence.

Sherlock didn’t make a sound. No tapping of laptop keys, no rustling of paper, no sound of weight being shifted in Sherlock’s chair. But also, no witty or sarcastic comeback to John’s ridiculous grumblings. Nothing.

John groaned again, loudly. Not so much out of irritation, but just to throw something out into this god-awful space of _silence_. He put the kettle on, rummaged through the cabinet for a clean mug, brought out the sugar, and made his way to the refrigerator for the milk.

John stood there with the door opened, staring. Just stood there, staring, and finally blinked. Once, twice, slowly. Upon the top shelf sat four brand new unopened tubs of whipped cream. They sat there perfectly aligned, the letters on the labels lining up perfectly, each facing outward at exactly the right angle, taunting him.

John took in a rather huge deep and not at all calming breath through his nose, calmly closed the refrigerator door, turned, and slowly walked back upstairs.

The sound of a newspaper page rustling and turning was heard throughout the room followed by the soft _click_ of the bedroom door.

 


	3. The First Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I have finally figured it out! And yes, there will be more to come, don't you fret.

There was a rustle of sheets, a quiet groan, and then a tug of covers. John cracked his eyes open and squinted, looking around his surroundings, somewhat disoriented, and then his eyes fell upon a cocooned heap of blankets and a mop of dark curls. Oh.

 _Oh_. John’s nightmare. The memory of last night’s events came flooding back into John’s mind, and he turned onto his side to face Sherlock. He was on his stomach wrapped up in the majority of John’s blankets like a burrito, and all that was visible was a left eye -- _oh, those lashes_ \-- and his mess of curls. John smiled sleepily.

Another rustle and a pathetic, groggy cry of “no...” with a _humph_ , and John quickly closed his eyes to feign sleep.

“ _Joooohn_ ,” Sherlock groaned quietly, stretching under the blankets as he did so. Dammit, he knew John was awake. “Sleepy…” Sherlock added, dropping his arms back down to the mattress after he finished stretching. Even at rest, Sherlock was dramatic as hell.

John opened his eyes and peered at Sherlock, not making a sound, slightly terrified that Sherlock would think this a mistake, ask John to forget this ever happened, _delete it_. But as all of these terrifying scenarios passed through John’s brain, he froze, engulfed in the beauty that was Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes and nose appeared from under the blankets, and he sleepily, slowly blinked a few times.

“Nightmare,” Sherlock whispered, letting his eyes fall back closed. “I came to check on you. You asked me to stay.” John simply nodded, afraid that his brain and mouth would betray him as soon as he opened his mouth to reply. He couldn’t -- wouldn’t -- fuck this up.

“You also have a rather comfortable bed up here as well,” Sherlock mumbled, slightly nodding his head in approval from under the blankets.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, suddenly much more scared than before. He didn’t know what he was planning to say, but he _needed_ to say _something_ , and the sound of Sherlock’s name was desperately on the tip of his tongue.

And it was as if Sherlock read his mind. In one quick, graceful movement, Sherlock lifted his arm, revealing an opening to his nice, warm cocoon of blankets, inviting John in. And John smiled, scooting over to Sherlock, curling up against him under the warm covers that were confiscated from him, up against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock engulfed him then, wrapping his arm around John, covering them both with the blanket. John smiled as he was pressed up against Sherlock, his nose meeting his collarbone, breathing in the smell of Sherlock. Woodsmoke, amber, cedarwood, and a faint smell of stale cigarettes.

“John,” Sherlock said, suddenly sounding very alert, aware, and serious. John leaned back away from his chest a bit, looking up at Sherlock. He hesitated for one, brief moment, peering into John’s eyes, and bent his head down to gently kiss John’s lips.

A real, proper kiss. Not a pining, sexual tension-induced kiss, but a _real_ , romantic kiss. After a few seconds, Sherlock broke the kiss, slowly opening his eyes to peer at John, their noses still touching, and John thought, believed, _knew_ that Sherlock Holmes was the most beautiful, breath-taking human being to ever walk the earth. And that’s exactly what happened: Sherlock took his breath away.

John frowned slightly at the loss of contact, the loss of the softness and warmth of Sherlock’s lips, the tenderness there. Sherlock gave a faint smile -- that quirk of the side of his mouth -- all-knowing, and closed his eyes yet again.

John smiled again, a toothy smile, and settled back against Sherlock’s chest, against the fabric there as he closed his eyes again, too, sleepy, happy, content. Once John was settled, Sherlock opened one eye to examine the results of his actions, saw that John was happy and relieved, all tension gone from his body, and lightly ran his hand down the length of John’s back before stilling again to fall back into slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided, finally, what I want this to become now that so many people have requested that The Spoon Thing become a series. I'm certain (hoping) that you will all be as pleased and excited as I am. The Spoon Thing (which, at some point, will be renamed to better suit the series as a whole) will be a series of various scenes within the daily life of Sherlock and John as they navigate their new relationship -- the good at the bad.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> I can be found over on tumblr at 2am-limbo.tumblr.com if you have any ideas or prompts for this!


	4. Danger Night

“John.”

It was a whisper, a mixture of pleading and asking. Sherlock had softly pushed open his bedroom door -- well, technically his bedroom, but he and John had been sharing it for about two months now -- but didn’t cross the threshold. Instead, he stayed in the shadows there, peering in as if it were uncharted territory, as if he had never been inside their bedroom before.

“John,” Sherlock tried again a little bit louder. He was about to give up and head back to the sitting room when he heard John stir. When Sherlock realized it was a false alarm, he turned and slowly walked back to the sitting room, shoulders slumped, visibly tired and troubled.

Sherlock sat down on the couch, his back straight up against the back of it and the palms of his hands resting on his knees. He sucked in a deep, tense breath, and stared ahead at his and John’s chairs, their desk, the floor. He didn’t know what to do.

Finally, his gaze rested upon the bookshelf, on one very particular book tucked in between various chemistry works. He looked away, gripping his knees, tensing even more. _He couldn’t do this to John_ , he thought, brows furrowing in thought.

“Sherlock?” John was standing in the entrance of the sitting room. How had Sherlock missed hearing John leave their bedroom? Sherlock didn’t miss these things.

“Did you call for me earlier? I thought I heard you.” John was leaning up against wall, looking tired but concerned. Sherlock only stared at him, mouth slightly agape.

“No,” he said quickly. Sherlock looked down from John’s face and to the man’s feet, bare on the hardwood floor. “Yes.”

He heard John’s sharp intake of breath as he pushed himself up off the wall. He sat down next to Sherlock on the couch. He quickly took in Sherlock’s appearance -- his disheveled hair, dark circles under his eyes, his dressing gown hanging off a shoulder to reveal his fitted black pajama shirt.

“What’s wrong?”

Suddenly Sherlock looked scared, panicked even, and when he looked to John sitting next to him, he blinked a few quick times. He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it shortly after, his brow furrowing in confusion at his inability to articulate anything going on in his head. Instead, he stood up and mechanically walked over to the bookshelf. He pulled out one of his many copies of _Origin of Species_ , placed it on the coffee table in front of him and John, and sat.

“John,” Sherlock began, “you told me one night almost two years ago after a… rather troubling case that I could come talk to you if… anything happened.”

“Yes,” John answered instantly, looking at the book sitting there on the table, and he felt as if it weighed an enormous amount, bearing down on them. “What’s happened?”

Sherlock chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking, trying to muster up the courage to get this off his chest, to tell John. He only hoped and prayed that John wouldn’t be disappointed in him. Sherlock pulled out a small plastic bag from his dressing gown pocket, and placed it on top of the book.

“Please don’t be upset with me.”

And John instantly understood. The small bag sat there filled with white powder, tied neatly with a twist tie. Another sharp intake of breath, and John removed his arm from the back of the couch so that he was now facing Sherlock completely.

“No,” John said, hoping that Sherlock would look at him. “I’m not upset with you.” John was calm, collected. Concerned, yes, but not upset or angry.

Sherlock looked confused again and finally looked to John. “Why?”

“You came to me. You didn’t keep everything bottled up in your head this time.” John gave him a small, fond smile, hopefully easing Sherlock’s nerves a bit. “Did you use any of it?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead, he gently slid the book and baggie towards John, his eyes never leaving them.

“I went out a couple hours ago and got it.”

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? I didn’t even hear you.”

John shifted his gaze to the book as well. Upon closer inspection, he realized that it was a hollow hardback book. He didn’t want to look inside. He gave a single nod -- he’d get rid of it.

“What triggered this?” Sherlock shrugged and looked away again, his gaze resting on the coffee table where he propped up his feet and slouched down into the couch, arms crossed over his torso.

“I know you’re bad at talking about your feelings. Hell, we both are, but maybe I can help. Even if I can’t, I’ll listen. And my feelings for you will never change regardless of whatever you do or tell me. Unless you, you know, poison me or something.” Sherlock huffed in amusement, and John grinned at this feat.

“I had been thinking.”

“Well, _obviously_ ,” John retorted, mimicking Sherlock’s usual comeback. That earned him a rather dramatic eye roll before he continued.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock tried again. “I was reading an article on the mating behaviors of various species, namely French angelfish. Did you know that they mate for life, and they work as a team to protect what is important to them, and --”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted gently, trying to bring him back to the original discussion.

Sherlock fell quiet and drummed his fingers on his leg. “It all starting spiraling and getting out of control, my thoughts. What if you grow tired of being with me, being a team, or realize that I’m not what you want?” Sherlock didn’t ask this as a question, he said it almost as a statement as if it were inevitable. John rested the side of his head down on the back of the couch as he continued to watch Sherlock. He didn’t answer for a second, but turned so that his entire body was facing Sherlock instead.

“C’mere,” John said quietly, tugging on Sherlock’s sleeve. He positioned himself so that his legs rested in a V so that Sherlock could lay up against him. John gently pulled Sherlock’s head to his belly and began running his fingers through his hair, causing Sherlock to hum quietly in contentment.

“Sherlock,” John began, tilting his head slightly to the side so that he could further watch Sherlock, make sure he was listening, wasn’t drifting. “You are _exactly_ what I want. Christ, I pined over you for almost three years.” Sherlock stayed quiet and wiggled himself further into the couch and against John. John smiled softly, looking down at Sherlock, brushing away a few stray curls from his forehead.

“I love you more than anything, more than I can even comprehend or express. But it’s true, and you need to know that, you brilliant, beautiful, infuriating, madman. Every day is something new and amazing with you, life is never _dull_ ,” John said with a grin, another fond jab at Sherlock.

“I need you to know that,” John said again. “You’re exactly what I want, and this is exactly where I want to be.” John placed both hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and tilted his head up, gently kissing his forehead. “You hear me?”

Sherlock blinked up at him with glassy eyes and leveled his head back down against John’s belly.

“I’m sorry.”

John placed his fingers back in Sherlock’s hair -- he loved doing this just as much as Sherlock loved having it done.

“You don’t need to be sorry. I’m glad you came to me.”

“I did use some of it…” Sherlock said quietly, sinking a bit further into the couch, recoiling a bit from John. John suddenly stopped his ministrations and looked down to the top of Sherlock’s head.

“And I want more, but… The guilt…” Sherlock paused. “So I came to get you. I didn’t want to be alone.” John continued his massage.

“Here, get up a second,” John said.

“John, what?” Sherlock looked up to John then, eyes wide and panicked.

“No, I’m not mad. Come here.” John lifted Sherlock up by the shoulders enough to pull out his legs, offering out his hand to pull Sherlock up. He grabbed John’s hand, and John grabbed the book and cocaine with his other. He lead Sherlock along behind him as he made his way to the loo.

John threw open the book and pulled out the the syringe and tourniquet, tossed them into the bin. He snatched up the baggie from where he placed it on the sink, removed the twist tie, and poured it into the toilet. Tossing the baggy into the bin, he stepped back and took Sherlock’s hand, and flushed. Once all evidence of the cocaine was gone, John softly dropped Sherlock’s hand and took out the trash bag. As he left the loo to take out the trash, Sherlock merely remained standing in the doorway staring at the toilet, mouth slightly agape.

When John returned, he found Sherlock still standing in the doorway. He grabbed his hand, turned him around, and planted a forceful, confident kiss on Sherlock’s lips, and gently pushed him towards to the bedroom.


	5. Argus Holmes

John heard the front door of 221B fly open and hit the wall. As he looked up, all he saw was a _woosh_ of Belstaff and crazy dark curls as Sherlock rushed by John and into their room, slamming the door behind him without a word. John frowned.

John sucked in a deep, calming breath and looked up to the ceiling to gather as much patience as he could muster before heaving himself up out of his chair. Calmly, he knocked on the bedroom door.

“Sher--”

“Shh! Shut up, John! Busy!” John dropped his shoulders and rolled his eyes, twisting the doorknob as he pushed open the door.

“ _Joooohn_!” Sherlock groaned in that child-like cry that he gives so frequently. He was perched on his knees and leaning back on his heels on the floor, hovering over a small basket. And then, suddenly, a tiny _mew_ came from the small basket that Sherlock guarded. John squinted suspiciously, and Sherlock’s brow furrowed even deeper, daring John to question him.

“What is that,” John said, pointing accusingly at Sherlock’s basket. John wasn’t really asking, he was demanding.

“A basket. Obviously, John. Have you learned nothing?”

“What’s _in_ the basket, Sherlock.” Another tiny mew. Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a great huff of frustration.

“Fine, okay, John, you win! I found an abandoned kitten in a dumpster on my way home from Bart’s and he was crying and someone just left him there to _die_ and _John we have to keep him_ ,” Sherlock said all in one, long breath. He slouched his shoulders forward, defeated, as if that whole explanation drained every ounce of energy he had.

John blinked. “A kitten.”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. “Yes, John, a kitten. _Don’t you listen_?”

“You want to keep a kitten.”

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air in frustration and fell back on his bottom to wrap his legs in a pretzel. “Just come look at him, John. He’s so…” Sherlock paused as he thought, searching for the appropriate word. “Cute.”

John gaped at him. Cute. Sherlock just referred to something as _cute_. He slowly stepped forward to peer into the basket, and was faced with a tiny grey tabby kitten with a raccoon-pattern tail, peering up at John with big kitten eyes. As the kitten stared at John, it's tiny bottom lip dropped slightly to mew at John. John closed his mouth and pursed his lips, defeated.

“He… He has your eyes, Sherlock. That innocent puppy look you get when you manipulate people to get what you want...”

Sherlock glared at John, his lips in a tight line. “John,” he said simply, “look at the kitten.”

And John did. The wee little kitten mewed again up at John, shook his fur out, and then began bathing a paw. “He is kind of cute.”

And just like that, Sherlock’s face lit up, his ridiculously beautiful face beaming at John like an excited child at Christmas.

Sherlock hummed in thought, “Argus Holmes.”

“Oh, dear God,” was all John had to offer.

 


	6. Hands

One of John’s favorite things about Sherlock is his hands -- those long and elegant violinist fingers. Sometimes John sits at the desk pretending to write a blog entry, but instead watches Sherlock sitting in his chair watching crap telly, his hands wrapped around a hot mug of tea. He knows Sherlock knows that he does this, but he can’t be bothered.

John has many vivid memories of Sherlock’s hands. The way they trembled that one night when John was shot. John was fine, it was pretty much a passing graze in his upper arm, but it had terrified Sherlock so badly that he could barely speak. He had stood at the side of John’s hospital bed as they waited for the nurse to return, and Sherlock was attempting to remove his wet coat. His hands shook so badly that he could barely keep hold of the buttons, looking down at his hands with some expression that John couldn’t place.

That same night, only moments later, the way Sherlock’s hands entwined in his own hair and pulled when his emotions got the best of him while standing next to John’s bed. Sherlock tugged at his curls forcefully, making John wince, his eyes wide and glassy and panicked.

“You could have died, John,” he sucked in a deep and shaky breath. “You could have _died_.”

“But I didn’t,” John said simply, calmly. “I’m right here,” he added, reaching up and grabbing Sherlock’s elbow, pulling down his arm from his head. As soon as Sherlock’s hand was down and within John’s reach from his position in the bed, he wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s wrist and placed his hand over his heart.

“I’m right _here_.” John knew what Sherlock needed in times like these, the somewhat rare occasions where Sherlock’s emotions and sentiment get the best of him, the times when he can’t control it any longer and lets only John see. Sherlock needed to be grounded, to be brought back and out of his head, that marvelous brain.

Sherlock stood there a moment, eyes still wide, and as he focused on John’s heart beat, steady and calm, his breathing began to slow as well, the primal fear leaving his eyes.

“John,” he said, and nothing else. They didn’t need to say anything else.

After they had gotten home the following morning after their hospital visit, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand as they crossed the threshold into 221B, and led him -- okay, dragged him -- to their bedroom, gently but firmly pushing him back onto the bed. He was so frantic and determined to check John over himself. Frantic still, he yanked John’s shirt up, sliding his hand beneath John’s back to lift him up enough to remove his shirt completely. Sherlock avoided John’s eyes, examining every part of him, sliding his hands down his neck to his shoulders, down his arms and to his chest.

When he reached John’s wound in his bicep, those delicate hands lightly ghosted over the bandages, around the edges of the bruises, and his frown deepened.

“Sherlock,” John whispered. There was no response, no evidence that his voice even registered, that Sherlock’s mind was even _here_.

“Sherlock, love,” John said again, more firmly. He reached up and placed both hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, running his thumbs softly over his beautiful cheekbones. “I’m okay. It’s okay.” Sherlock looked up then and met John’s eyes, and he looked so _sad_.

“I can’t lose you,” Sherlock whispered, almost inaudibly as if whispering to himself. John pulled Sherlock’s face closer to kiss him on the lips, his jaw, his cheek, and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed as John’s lips continued to softly trace over his face, over his eyelids, his temples.

“Hey,” John said softly, “could be dangerous,” he added fondly with a smirk, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and bringing it to his lips.

 


	7. Sherlock Gets the Flu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a beta reader, so I edit everything on my own (and I know that I'm very Comma Happy, it's a problem) -- and I've learned a lot from everyone else's fics... Like the use of "paracetamol"... Here in the US, we just say "Tylenol" or "acetaminophen" if you wanna get fancy. I have to learn these things! Let me know if you find something that differs between UK/US English that I may have missed! :)

A few weeks ago, Sherlock came down with the flu. He was miserable, which meant everyone else was miserable, too. That first night, though, who would have known that strong antihistamines would make Sherlock loopy?

“John,” Sherlock sniffled from the doorway, dressed in his plaid pajama pants and fitted t-shirt, complete, of course, with his blue dressing gown. He had his arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen, his dark curls sticking up every which way on one side, the other side flattened, and John couldn’t help but grin at the sight before him. Sherlock’s frown deepened, and that only caused John to burst out in laughter.

“John,” he pouted, “come lay down with me?” John smiled sweetly then, almost feeling sorry for Sherlock. Almost. “I’m _aching_ ,” Sherlock whined. Sherlock, so dramatic.

That night, after John forced antihistamines into Sherlock, Sherlock put himself to sleep by clutching the front of John’s jumper, stroking the threads of it, murmuring about how much he really did (secretly) love John’s jumpers.

Sherlock drifted in and out of sleep as John stroked his fingers through his hair, watching how Sherlock gently bunched or smoothed over his jumper every now and then in his sleep. The lines, the veins, the joints.

An hour or two after Sherlock had fallen asleep, John felt him begin to shiver, a cold sweat forming on his forehead. John frowned and shifted a bit onto an elbow in order to peer over Sherlock who was laying on his side facing John.

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, feeling for a temperature, already knowing what he would find. Heaving a sigh, John got up to fetch some water and paracetamol, quickly returning to bed.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, running a hand through Sherlock’s curls, brushing them away from his forehead. “Love, wake up.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered opened, and he sleepily peered up at John with a frown. He pulled the covers up higher to his chin and closed his eyes again.

“No, Sherlock, you need to take this for your fever and get some of those layers off.” Sherlock hummed in response, not paying attention to anything John was saying. John sighed and reached down to pull Sherlock up by his shoulders, pulling away the blanket. “Look at me, love.”

Sherlock did as he was told, opening his eyes only half way. John held up the glass of water.

“Take this for me and then you can go back to sleep.” Sherlock took the pills and swallowed them without a word.

“I hurt _everywhere_ ,” he mumbled as he lowered himself back down to the bed. John stripped away the heavy down comforter and wrapped himself around Sherlock to offer his body heat instead, hoping to break Sherlock’s fever before it got too far gone.

John hated that Sherlock was sick, hated to see his usual lively, energetic, maddeningly stubborn Sherlock reduced to unintelligible mumbling, lethargy, and body aches. On the other hand, though, John was devoted to caring for the man, looking after him especially since he barely looked after himself, and he enjoyed it. It made him feel loved and needed. John sometimes wondered how Sherlock even survived in the years before John came along.

Sherlock shifted in John’s arms, wrapping a leg over John’s and ever so slightly pushed his hips forward in order to get closer to John and his warmth. John took in a sharp intake of breath as his hips and groin rubbed up against his own, and he looked to the ceiling for strength, mumbling _Christ_ under his breath.

John held his breath and tried to focus on the soft light peeking in around the window’s blinds and on Sherlock’s feverish mumblings about human livers and feline ear mites, but Sherlock wrapped his leg around John’s even tighter to get closer, ducking his head a little lower on John’s shoulder, completely out of it and oblivious. John groaned and threw himself out of bed, making his way to the loo.

“...John?” Sherlock asked in a sleepy haze, frowning.

“I’ll be back in a minute! I have to go take care of something!”


	8. The Anniversary -- Part 1

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and huffed at the display that he had been standing in front of for twenty minutes. He thought. He analyzed. He was so frazzled by now that he didn’t even pay attention to the two other men in the store, didn’t bother deducing. His brow furrowed even deeper.

“Can I help you, sir?” A young and cheerful woman appeared from the back room and now stood in front of Sherlock across the counter, but Sherlock was paying no mind. His eyes flickered from piece to piece -- gold, white gold, rose gold, silver, platinum, steel. _This is ridiculous_. He huffed again and frowned. For once, Sherlock was at a loss for words.

“Um…” Sherlock murmured. A tiny part of Sherlock’s brain told him that this gift was too extravagant, too lavish for such an occasion, this soon, but the majority of his brain told him that _this soon_ didn’t apply to him and John. _Sherlock and John_ had been a thing in the making for quite a long time now. Sherlock felt confident in this decision, and he felt as if John would appreciate it, not think of it as garish.

The woman smiled at Sherlock, amused. She could almost see the gears turning in his brain.

“I want to buy a ring for someone,” Sherlock stated simply as he blinked up at the saleswoman.

“Yes,” she replied, amused but patient, and waited for him to continue.

“For a man,” he added. He raised an eyebrow in anticipation of some kind of remark, but none came. She continued to smile at him, genuinely interested in his situation. Sherlock rocked onto the balls of his feet and back, his hands clasped behind his back in his usual Sherlock-ian manner.

“...and,” he continued, drawing out the word in order to overcome his discomfort and to figure out his next words. “I don’t know… what I’m doing…” he confessed. The words tasted like acid.

“Okay, well. Tell me what he’s like, we can figure it out.” Sherlock frowned. What was John like?

“It’s for our sixth month anniversary, but that is only officially. It has been in the making for a couple of years now. He’s…” Sherlock thought back to all he had put John through. His moods, his strops, his addiction, his obsessiveness. Dying. Dying in front of John and leaving him for two years. All for John, yes, but devastating nonetheless. Sherlock frowned, deeply. He hadn’t realized quite how unbearable he was until asked this question by the saleswoman.

Sherlock looked back up at the woman, releasing his hands and placing them in his coat pockets. “Actually,” he said, looking sad, “I’ll come back later.”

Sherlock sat in the back of the cab deep in thought. He became increasingly troubled with the direction his thoughts had taken, and he began to jump to ridiculous conclusions regarding John’s feelings for him. Logic be damned.

After paying the driver, he walked into 221 and up the stairs to their flat. He found John at the sink, hands in soapy water, and without pause he walked up to John and wrapped his arms around his waist from behind. He buried his face in the space between John’s neck and shoulder and inhaled, closed his eyes, and savored the moment.

“John,” he mumbled into John’s neck. Sherlock turned his head to expose his mouth so that John could hear him. “Why do you put up with me.”

 


	9. The Anniversary -- Part 2

_“John,” he mumbled into John’s neck. Sherlock turned his head to expose his mouth so that John could hear him. “Why do you put up with me.”_ It was said as a statement. Sherlock wasn’t asking.

John was confused and turned around to face Sherlock as he grabbed a towel off the counter to dry his hands. “What?”

Sherlock grimaced and maintained eye contact as he dropped his arms to his side. “This morning I realized,” Sherlock began as he lifted his gaze to examine an imaginary something behind John. John wasn’t having it, though, and adjusted his position so that he was yet again in Sherlock’s line of vision.

“I realized that I have done nothing but cause you grief over these last few years. Since we’ve met. I’m obsessive and impulsive and generally have no concern for my own personal safety, I’m reckless. I only substituted one addiction for another. You always end up having to clean up after me, I become depressed and push you away and isolate myself for days without talking…” Sherlock snapped his mouth closed, his teeth clicking at the impact, and inhaled deeply through his nose. “I am a ridiculous man, John. I’m unbearable.” Sherlock looked back down to John, and his gaze became even sadder. “I left for Christ’s sake. I left you for _two_ _years_. I made you believe that I was dead.”

“No,” John snapped immediately as he lifted his jaw just slightly to argue, Captain John Watson style. “You left to _save_ me. And Greg and Mrs. Hudson and everyone else. You left to protect me. And yes, I was angry and I _hated_ you for leaving me, but later, once I understood, once you came back and I understood... there is no way possible for me to ever repay you. I will always, always be grateful for that. For you.”

Sherlock only shook his head. John took in a deep breath and tried to think of what else to say to him, how to explain. Sherlock thinking and feeling this way was breaking John’s heart, and for him to be opening up to John like this was a big deal. A really big deal.

“John,” Sherlock said quietly. “I am so sorry.” John’s eyes softened then as his jaw dropped slightly back into its previous position. This entire thing was so unexpected, and it left John reeling.

John reached up then and held Sherlock’s head between his hands. He leaned up to place a firm kiss on Sherlock’s mouth, and pulled away again to look into the man’s eyes. “You listen to me, Sherlock Holmes,” he stated sternly. “You are not _unbearable_. Stubborn, bullheaded, and infuriating at times, yes, but I love that about you. There’s nothing I would change. You haven’t only caused me grief. Just the opposite, in fact.” Sherlock blinked down at John once, twice, his expression never wavering.

“Got it?” John asked sternly with a piercing gaze that Sherlock knew only meant _do not argue with me, Sherlock Holmes_. Sherlock nodded slowly, his eyes brightening just a little as he met John’s gaze, and John gave a single small definitive nod. Conversation over.

Sherlock made his way back to the small jewelry shop early that next morning.

 


	10. The Tower

John walked into 221B with two grocery bags and stopped when he found Sherlock, motionless, at the kitchen table. He sat there with his elbows on the table, hands steepled at his chin, and stared intensely at Argus. Argus sat perched on the table and scowled at Sherlock, his eyes never wavered.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he lowered his chin slightly so that his fingers were now over his lips, and then arched a brow. Argus never flinched.

“Um, Sherlock --”

“Shh! Shut up!” Sherlock snapped, eyes maintaining contact with Argus. “I’m concentrating.”

A second passed. Two. A couple minutes.

“Oh, oh! _Oh!_ I remember!” Sherlock jumped up and flailed his arms. The chair fell down with a very loud _thud_ as he excitedly sprinted off to their bedroom. “John! _Joooohn!_ ”

John sighed and sat the bags down, as he slowly sauntered off to their bedroom. He leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed and waited. “This!” Sherlock shouted from their bedroom, hands frantically rummaging around stacks of papers and books on the floor at his side of the bed.

“What were you doing with the cat?”

“Oh, he was helping me remember where I put something,” Sherlock waved a hand to dismiss John’s question.

“ _This!_ ” Sherlock excitedly shoved a small stack of papers to John’s chest, his eyes wide and bright and child-like in only a way that Sherlock Holmes could pull off.

John looked at the papers, confused, and tried to follow Sherlock’s thought process as he examined the meticulous design sketches. Perfectly straight lines with measurements and angles and bulleted side notes.

“This is a --”

“Yes.”

“But… we can buy these. In a store.” John looked up at Sherlock, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“No, I want you to _build it!_ ”

“I’m not building a bloody cat tree, Sherlock,” John huffed and tossed the papers onto the side of the bed. “We can _buy_ one for Argus.” Based on Sherlock’s sketches, it was indeed an actual cat tower. With quite a few levels and poles and hide-y holes. Leave it to Sherlock to call it something dramatic.

“It’s a cat _tower_ , John. I’ve searched all over the Internet. No one sells cat towers. You have to build it! I designed it,” Sherlock motioned towards his design as if it were the only obvious solution, and gave John those wide, puppy-like eyes. “You’re a doctor. You use your hands.”

“I use my hands, yes,” John simply stared at Sherlock, “to _heal_ people. Not build bloody cat trees --”

“ _Towers_ , John, don’t you --”

“I’m not a carpenter and I’m not an architect!”

“Argus can’t have just _any_ cat tower! Honestly, John. Do you know what kinds of materials they use? Cheap synthetic wood and --” Sherlock huffed and placed his hands on his hips as he does when he’s getting physically agitated. He began to pace as he flailed his hands around as he continued on about synthetic materials and ingredients found in paint and types of carpeting. “It would fall apart! The cheap nails would warp and poke out, Argus could get hurt! He could get tetanus! Or lose an eye!”

“Argus isn’t going to get tetanus, Sherlock,” John said simply.

“ _John!_ ”

And John realized then that Sherlock was truly, genuinely, ridiculously concerned over this, and that he had given this much thought. Only Sherlock could work himself up into some kind of ridiculous anxiety attack over illogical situations and outcomes.

John sighed, defeated, and looked up at Sherlock with nothing but adoration and love. Well, okay, and a bit of annoyance. “The things I do for you…” he grumbled as he snatched up Sherlock’s ridiculous sketches and stomped out of the room. “But _you’re_ going to the store to buy the bloody materials!” John shouted behind him.

 


	11. The Day John Brought Tears to Sherlock's Eyes

On December 12th, John brought tears to Sherlock’s eyes.

John had never once seen the man cry. John had suspected, yes. That day on the tarmac after the situation with Magnussen, Sherlock got off the plane to meet Mycroft with a red face and glassy eyes, but there had been no evidence of shed tears. John had never witnessed something moving Sherlock so much to cause such a reaction. That is, until December 12th.

“I found something this morning that I think you might like,” John had said.

“Oh, yeah?” Sherlock replied from the kitchen table, only half paying attention as he looked into his microscope.

“C’mere,” John said casually as he clicked a few times on his laptop, going back to something he bookmarked.

“John, I’m bu--”

“Please,” John interrupted, and something in his voice caused Sherlock to look up at John then, this something indicated that this was important to John, and so he stood up and went to sit in his own chair across from John.

“It’s a song,” John answered Sherlock’s unspoken question. Sherlock leaned back in his chair then as he waited and steepled his hands under his chin. John hit play.

John prepared himself to watch Sherlock. He had never seen Sherlock listen to anything that could be considered “modern”, and he had found this song and loved it. He hoped that Sherlock would love it as well. After 45 seconds or so, Sherlock closed his eyes and listened.

Five, six, seven minutes passed, and when the song ended, Sherlock didn’t immediately open his eyes. When he did, though, they were glassy and damp, shining, and John was almost hit with a wave of guilt, but then Sherlock let out a breath through his nose and said “what was the title of that piece, John?” in a small voice.

John swallowed, “Arrival of the Birds and Transformation.”

Sherlock only hummed in response and closed his eyes again as he raised his steepled hands to his lips, and slowly nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can listen to the song [here on YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MqoANESQ4cQ)
> 
> This just happened to me a few minutes ago. I had found some playlists on Spotify and 8tracks, and I found this one particular instrumental one that had this song. When I heard it, it brought tears to my eyes, and it sounded perfect.
> 
> I’ve found some other songs, too -- I’m putting together my own playlist -- but sadly, this song is no longer available on Spotify.


	12. Living in a Dream

Sometimes Sherlock thinks that he’s living in a dream and that none of this is real.

Today he sits in his armchair -- hands steepled under his chin, staring absently at John -- and he thinks this.

He thinks that maybe he’s still a teenager or in his twenties, high out of his mind, or maybe he’s overdosed and dying, and that this life -- meeting John Watson, living _this_ life -- is what he sees as he’s drifting away.

Maybe he’s been alone for so long now that he’s finally lost it, that the loneliness has won. Maybe John Watson is a figment of his imagination, a coping mechanism. Or maybe he’s had another episode after quite a while of being stable, that he’s hallucinating this man, his best friend.

Maybe he’s never had this life at all.

Sherlock frowns and lowers his head a bit, his steepled fingers now at his lips.

“What’re you thinking about over there in that big brain of yours?”

Sherlock hears John’s voice speaking to him from a far, far distance, calling to him from the edge, bringing him back to _here_. He looks up then at John, recognition returning to his eyes, and he sucks in a shuddering breath as his eyes tear up just a little bit from the overwhelming thoughts and upon seeing his doctor, his best friend, his lover.

“There you are,” John smiles.

And Sherlock thinks, then, that if this is all a dream, a hallucination, an after life, that he doesn’t care. He’ll take it.

 


	13. Urgent Care

John treks up the sidewalk behind Sherlock to 221 Baker Street, not paying too much attention to Sherlock’s trembling cold hands fumbling to unlock the door. He’s too _preoccupied_ to care.

As Sherlock finally gets the door open, John’s hand is on the small of Sherlock’s back, not-so-gently pushing him forward and up the stairs to 221B.

“ _John_ , stop pushing me, I’m _tired_ ,” Sherlock huffs and whines, fumbling along as John nudges. A week long case has finally come to an end, and Sherlock has actually exhausted all of his faculties. All he can think about is a nice long, hot shower and their shared bed. John says nothing as they reach the landing, snatching Sherlock’s keys from his hand to throw open the door.

“John, what’s the ru--” and right then John shoves Sherlock through the doorway and up against the closest wall, pinning him with a leg in between Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s eyes widen as he gives a little gasp of surprise at the impact. He still hasn’t quite gotten used to John’s assertiveness and dominance in this type of thing -- in their _relationship_ \-- and despite what most think about Sherlock Holmes, he isn’t inexperienced. He has had quite a few _encounters_ since his uni days, but nothing that meant anything. Nothing meant anything at all until John Watson, and John was _his_.

Sherlock hungrily kisses John back as he wraps his arms around John’s back. He pushes him forward slightly in order to lead him further down the hall and into their bedroom, but John only shoves him back up against the wall, hands frantically moving down to the bulge in Sherlock’s pants. He unbuttons and pulls down the zipper.

Hours earlier, Sherlock had been tackled by the murderer they had been after, causing Sherlock to land _hard_ on his back. He checked out fine once the paramedics arrived, but the attraction John always feels when he watches Sherlock deduce anything and everything -- every damn time -- mixed with the panic he felt upon seeing Sherlock tackled to the ground, all John wanted to do was to have Sherlock in every way possible. He wanted Sherlock to be _his_ and his only. He wanted to be the one to put Sherlock on his back, to pin him down and devour him. He wanted to kiss and nip at every inch of Sherlock’s skin, run his hands over every inch of that beautiful body, and brand him as his own.

And John planned on doing just that.


	14. Into Battle

“One day when Sherlock was thirteen, I peered out the window to see where he had gone off to, only to see him lying on his back in the garden,” Mycroft took in a deep, shaky breath, mirroring the posture that John sees so often in Sherlock at their window in 221B -- hands held behind his back, spine straight, stoic face.

“I rushed outside thinking that he had fallen or had hurt himself, but he simply blinked up at me and wouldn’t respond to any of my inquiries. We later learned that he had been experiencing early onset bipolar disorder since about age twelve or so, and that was only the beginning of another depressive, semi-catatonic episode.” Mycroft closed his eyes for only a second and gave a soft, small, sad smile, and then turned to John.

“I’ve noticed, John -- and I believe you have been noticing as well -- that his episodes have been becoming more frequent lately. They do not seem to be lasting too terribly long before he crashes, but they are becoming problematic once again.”

John hummed in response. He didn’t know what to say. He had noticed, and it broke his heart each time, but he didn’t know what to do, how to help. Despite his medical training, nothing prepared him for Sherlock Holmes and the level to which everything in his life seemed to be taken to.

“John, please,” Mycroft began again, almost a whisper, as he turned to face John completely, removing his hands from behind his back and placing them on the handle of his umbrella.

“Please do take care of him. Look after him. I believe that you are the only person that he completely trusts, and he truly does listen to you regardless of how difficult he becomes. He cares for you deeply, and he takes you into consideration always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Spoilers for TAB below***
> 
> Protective!Mycroft at the end of TAB sent off dozens of little plot bunnies running off in my head -- just that one little sentence that he offered to John. Gah! My life has become hell now that it's over. So many fics to read and write now!


	15. Bedshaped

“Sherlock,” John called as he walked down the hallway to peer into their bedroom. “You really need to eat something.” Sherlock was exactly where John had left him that morning -- flat on his back in their bed with his hands placed lightly on his abdomen -- but now Argus had fixed himself next to Sherlock’s head on his pillow with paws tucked as he stood guard.

Two and a half days. It had been two and a half days since John had heard Sherlock say anything more than a grunt. Two and a half days since he had heard the violin, shouting at bad telly, or the clinking of chemistry equipment.

John watched him for a second from the doorway and sighed quietly. He went to Sherlock’s bedside, sat down softly, and looked him over before scooting over to straddle Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in confusion when John did this, but John only placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, ran a hand through those curls, and said, “Sherlock, love…”

John lowered his eyes from Sherlock’s curls to peer into his eyes as he began to stroke Sherlock’s cheekbones with his thumbs, “listen to me, alright?” Sherlock blinked.

“I know how much easier it is to lay here in bed when you’re feeling this way. I was depressed for a long time when I came home from Afghanistan, alright, I _get_ it, but you’re running yourself into the ground here, and I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock whispered. His eyes misted over as soon as John touched him.

“You’re not fine,” John quickly replied, “I miss you. _You_. And you can get through this, like all the other times.”

“This is _me_ ,” Sherlock suddenly snapped, but John only held Sherlock’s head firmly in place within his hands and sighed inwardly. John knew these types of talks were always touch and go in situations such as these, and he backtracked to find a better way to explain himself.

“You know what I mean, Sherlock. This is a _part_ of you. And this is okay. It’s okay to be sad and depressed and lethargic, and I will always love you regardless, but you need to fight through it now. I know you don’t feel like any cases right now, but we could play Cluedo, yeah? Or we can order in some takeaway and watch a bad movie that I know you’ll hate.”

Sherlock blinked again, his anger gone in a flash.

“Think about it, alright?” John added as he tapped Sherlock’s temple. He kissed Sherlock’s forehead as he moved to get off the bed, and he felt Sherlock give a long, steady exhale as he did so.

When John reached the doorway, he turned back to Sherlock and said, “I’m gonna run up to Tesco to get a few things, want anything?” Sherlock only hummed in response.

* * *

 

John returned home with a couple bags full of milk, tea, some pasta that Sherlock loved, and other random foods that he always indulged in when he thought John wasn’t watching. As John made his way up the stairs to 221B and opened the door, he found Sherlock sitting on the couch, his posture perfect up against the back of it as if he had no idea what to do with himself, with his hands in his lap with Argus sat perched there as well.

John smiled to himself at the sight and put the bags down. When John reached Sherlock at the couch, he looked down at him with a smile just as Sherlock peered up at John with a glassy look that said, _see, look, I did it, John,_ and John’s heart both broke and swelled at the same time.


	16. Sometimes

Sometimes John and Sherlock shared these small, secret, beautiful moments that only they saw. Others who knew them saw them, too, maybe, but no one else _knew_ , no one else understood.

Sometimes John would look up from typing at his side of the desk just as Sherlock looked up a second later to meet his eyes -- his bright green eyes becoming visible over his long lashes -- and John’s heart would skip a beat. John would give one of his half smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and something would flash in Sherlock’s eyes, loving and almost innocent, and then they’d both look back down. They both knew what they did to each other.

Sometimes, every once in awhile, they’d get a case that Sherlock couldn’t _quite_ get a hold of. Something, _something_ would be on the tip of his brain, and he couldn’t quite grab it -- and so he’d pace and pull at his hair and drive himself absolutely mad as he ping-ponged off the walls of 221B. And there would be John, gently stopping Sherlock in his tracks by brushing his hand up the man’s side, feeling the ribs there more pronounced over the last few days, and then lifting his hands up to pull Sherlock’s down from his hair. And without a word, just like that, Sherlock would exhale, his shoulders dropping, and he’d fling himself to the floor regardless of where he was standing, and stare at the wall where he pinned up his evidence, and breathe.

Sometimes Molly would throw a casual party, or Mrs. Hudson would have everyone over for dinner, or a client would invite Sherlock and John to an event (that John usually made Sherlock attend out of _pleasantries_ ), and Sherlock would stand off against the wall and sip at his drink as he watched John do his polite thing around the room, all smiles and handshakes. And sometimes John would look up when he’d feel _those eyes_ on him -- always a distinct feeling -- and John would meet those eyes, dark now with pupils blown wide, and he could almost, _almost_ see that small, devious grin behind Sherlock’s glass as he took a sip. John would make his way over to Sherlock, pluck his drink from his hands and place it on the table, and grab Sherlock’s wrist to drag him off to the back room where the coats were kept. All the while that grin remained plastered to Sherlock’s face.

Regardless of the moment, though, they both always, _always_ felt the love and adoration behind those looks, those fleeting glances, and piercing stares. Sometimes it was enough for John’s heart to skip a beat or for Sherlock to feel as if the breath was knocked from him. And every once in awhile if the two of them weren’t paying much attention, they would hear a small voice in the doorway of 221B, “oh, my boys!” and a small giggle.


	17. Redbeard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I searched and searched in hopes of finding Mummy's actual name, but I was only able to find some theories floating around out there. So I have dubbed Mummy "Lydia" for the sake of this story. :)

Mrs. Holmes placed a cup of tea and saucer down on the table in front of John with a satisfying _clink_ , and then plopped down a rather large photo album. Mrs. Holmes gave a contented sigh as she lowered herself into her chair while John took a sip of his tea -- perfect -- and she opened the leather-bound book.

Mrs. Holmes -- _oh, for the love of… Lydia, please,_ \-- hummed to herself as she flipped through a couple pages, apparently looking for a specific picture, or many, to share with John. She found it and tapped it with her red-polished finger.

“This one,” she began with a smile, “is one of my absolute favorites. My’ had gone through this phase when he was fourteen after seeing some film where he went around taking pictures of everyone and spying. He loved knowing everything,” John snorted. How typical. “So we got him a camera for his birthday. He wandered upstairs one morning and took this.”

Lydia pushed the album towards John a little so that he could better see it, and he felt himself smile, his chest warming up considerably, happy butterflies filling his belly.

“Sherlock was seven.”

In the photo, a seven year old Sherlock was lying on a wooden floor asleep, in what John assumed was their attic, with a long-haired Redbeard. Redbeard was stretched out on his side as a pillow for young Sherlock, his paws wrapped protectively around his head, surrounded by dozens of papers and open books.

“About a month or so later was when we had to send Redbeard to Heaven,” she said quietly, humming to herself as she looked down at the picture, sadness and regret covering her features, “Sherlock was never the same after that.”

That night when Sherlock entered the bedroom that he and John had been sharing at the Holmes’ house for the weekend, John slammed into him with a huge hug.

John kissed Sherlock’s jaw, “I love you,” he said, “more than anything.”

And that night John pulled Sherlock to him close. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock tightly, his body an outline of Sherlock’s as if to shield him from the world, too.


	18. Flashback

John opened the door to 221B to find Sherlock asleep on the floor up against the couch in nothing but pajama pants. John stood there for a second, confused, kicked off his shoes, and hung up his jacket. He quietly padded over to Sherlock and lowered himself to the floor.

“Sherlock?” Sherlock flinched a little, and John could tell by the movement behind his eyelids that he was dreaming.

“Sherlock, love,” John tried again, and gently placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock immediately pulled away and lunged up against the couch, and his hands flew up to cover his eyes without even opening them. “If I can’t see them, they can’t see me,” Sherlock whispered, so softly that John could barely make out what he said.

John slowly lowered his hand and placed it in his lap when he realized with a frown what was happening.

“Sherlock,” John said firmly and loudly, putting on his Captain mask. “Sherlock, you’re dreaming, you’re having a flashback. Wake up, Sherlock.” Sherlock’s shoulders slumped. 

“Stop it. Stop. You’re not here. You’re a construct of my mind. A coping mechanism. You’re not _here_ ,” Sherlock frantically mumbled to himself. John slowly, carefully reached out for Sherlock’s hands. He knew he shouldn’t touch during a flashback, but he couldn’t _not_.

“Sherlock,” John began again as he slowly pulled Sherlock’s hands away from his eyes. John held them even tighter when Sherlock tried to flinch away again. “Look at me. Open your eyes.” John placed his hands on Sherlock’s cheeks, gently tilting his from side to side to hopefully bring him back to the present. Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion at the motion, and finally, finally, his eyes fluttered open.

“There you are,” John whispered gently with a sad smile. “With me?” Sherlock looked around the flat in a daze, confusion written across his features.

“I…” Sherlock managed to choke out, his eyes finally meeting John’s. Sherlock snapped his mouth closed and stood up suddenly and stumbled slightly before regaining his composure, and slowly walked to their bedroom, and gently closed the door.

John stayed put for a minute, trying to decide whether or not to give Sherlock some space and time. Ultimately, John decided, he shouldn’t leave Sherlock alone for a while in case this triggered a Danger Night.

John stood up and made his way to their bedroom door, and knocked softly before he opened the door. Everything was in its place since John had tidied: the periodic table still up on the wall, Sherlock’s stacks and stacks of books up against the walls, drawers closed, blinds and curtains opened to let in the light. But Sherlock was stretched out on their bed on his side with his arms wrapped around his abdomen.

“Not now, John,” Sherlock said just loudly enough to for John to hear. John didn’t reply but persisted anyway. He quietly walked to the bed and laid down behind Sherlock and wrapped his arm around him as he placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s.

“I know they’re difficult,” John whispered, “but they don’t make you any less amazing. They don’t make you any less _Sherlock_.” Sherlock let out a small shuddering breath and said nothing.

John moved a little closer and placed his face in Sherlock’s dark curls as he breathed in Sherlock’s sandalwood and citrus shampoo. “I love you,” John said, “and I’ll help you in whatever way I can if you need me to.” Sherlock took that to heart, and fell asleep shortly after with regular and relaxed breaths, He barely moved for hours, and didn’t dream at all.


	19. Sherlock, The Emotional Drunk

Sherlock was actually truly drunk. Smashed, in fact.

John had talked Sherlock into going out with him and Lestrade to the pub after a case in which Sherlock was especially proud of himself and not-so-humble (as always), and therefore was in an exceptional mood. An exceptional mood for Sherlock, that is.

Sherlock had ordered his own fancy drink, which earned himself a raised eyebrow and an eye roll from Lestrade, but John had managed to talk Sherlock into taking a shot of Fireball with him.

“Really, John, I don’t understand the appeal of taking sh--” and a second shot of Fireball, a muffled sound of disgust, followed by a rather intimidating glare at the shot glass. A third shot and, finally, a fourth. The man really did have a high tolerance and could hold his liquor.

By the end of the night, Sherlock was stumbling about as John and Sherlock walked out of the pub to hail a cab. John was feeling rather smug and proud of himself. He had stopped taking shots after his second, and in the end, Sherlock had had four after nursing his scotch. This had been John’s plan all along.

The boys had had a rather rough couple of days with a case that had bothered Sherlock terribly -- one that involved a drug addict who had flunked out of university on an academic scholarship studying mathematics -- and John was determined to help Sherlock have a good time, to loosen up, and to forget for a little while.

Sherlock stopped as they hit the curb and rocked back on his feet.

“John,”  Sherlock began, “why--” Sherlock’s brow furrowed in frustration, frustrated that he couldn’t quite articulate fast enough, and gave a huff.

“Why aren’t you more--” Sherlock waved his hand in the air between the two men, obviously trying to get his point across without words.

John shrugged. “I come from a long line of alcoholics. It’s in my genes.”

Sherlock glared accusingly at John and dramatically squinted his eyes for emphasis. “You tricked me,” he said as he jabbed a finger at John. Sherlock gave a “humph” and hailed a cab, pointedly pushing past John to get into the cab first. John chuckled and got in behind, and told the driver 221 Baker Street.

By the time the boys arrived home, Sherlock was half asleep against John’s shoulder, and he actually whined when John tried waking him. After slamming his head on the inside of the roof of the car, Sherlock managed to get his way to the front door by mostly leaning on John. On their way up the stairs, Sherlock stumbled up and managed to shove John along impatiently, and when they reached the landing, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John tightly in a single and remarkably graceful movement. He clung to John, hands clutched in John’s jumper and nuzzled his face into John’s neck.

“I love you, you know,” Sherlock’s warm breath ghosted over John’s neck. “I don’t tell you often enough.” Sherlock kissed the skin there (his favorite place) lovingly, not in a passionate way to cause arousal, and said “You’re too good to me. I don’t deserve you.”

“Come on, love,” John said gently and ran his hands down Sherlock’s back and down his arms with a soft smile. “Let’s get you into bed.”

“But _John_ \--”

“No, don’t ‘but John’ me. Bed.” John took his hand and led him inside. Once he had Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed, he began removing his socks and shoes, taking his suit jacket, unbuttoning his shirt… Sherlock, completely relaxed with his hands in his lap, looked up at John sweetly. “Stay with me, John.”

“I’m not going anywhere, love,”  John murmured, and “stand up a sec, let’s get your trousers off.” Sherlock did as he was told, and then let John ease him back onto the bed and under the sheets.  John quickly undressed except for his pants and slid in behind Sherlock. John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist, and with his face next to his ear said “and you’re wrong. You deserve _everything_.”


	20. The Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the idea for this from [this amazing fan art here](http://dreamingjohnlock.tumblr.com/post/158908815750/ivorylungs-happy-birthday-my-sweet-prince-o) via [Dreaming Johnlock](http://dreamingjohnlock.tumblr.com).

John woke up one morning to an extra affectionate consulting detective. The man was nuzzled up against John’s chest with legs tangled up with his, as he rubbed his cheek along John’s chest, almost cat-like, and sighed contentedly. John chuckled sleepily and wrapped his arms around the man’s bare torso.

“Hm… you’re extra lovey this morning,” John murmured. Sherlock hummed in response and placed small kisses all along John’s chest and arms in an affectionate way not meant to cause arousal.

“I just love you,” Sherlock said. “My Prince.”

John’s face immediately turned scarlet when he heard the new term of endearment. “... Your Prince?” John asked in order to test out the new name. He found that he quite liked it.

“Mm-hmm…” Sherlock cooed. “My Conductor of Light. My Knight in Shining Armor. My Prince.” If Sherlock felt the heat beneath his lips as they passed over John’s skin, he didn’t say, but he smiled as he kissed all along John’s chest when he asked for Sherlock to look up at him with a blush.

“... Say it again?”  
  
“Mm… My Prince.”

**Author's Note:**

> Also, follow me on tumblr @ [2am-limbo](http://2am-limbo.tumblr.com/).


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